


By the Sea

by ghostofshe



Category: Fallout (Video Games), Fallout: New Vegas
Genre: Babies, Gen, Happy Ending, Light Angst, Original Character Death(s)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-16
Updated: 2017-01-16
Packaged: 2018-09-17 20:56:25
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,666
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9343928
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ghostofshe/pseuds/ghostofshe
Summary: How Caesar came to find Dead Sea on the shores of the Great Salt Lake





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Dhole](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dhole/gifts).



> Written for tumblr user dholes! Hope you enjoy it :)

The warm water laps against her ankles, her feet almost fully immersed in the wet sand. There’s barely enough water to call it a lake, but it’s more than there was the first time she stepped onto this beach. Back then, it was mostly just a dried-up plain, pale and cracked, where very little seemed to grow. Now, here in the center, there’s a shallow well that’s grown a bit through the years of rain. Not much of a lake at all, but still, as the sun moves behind the hilltops – the orange and red reflecting across the surface of the water, it makes her think of the sea.

Although she’s never seen the sea, she has read about it. Her tribe has a large collection of old books, taken from the nearby ruins years before the New Canaanites arrived. The rough yellow pages contain many pictures and stories about the seas, about the people who would ride the water in huge structures that floated on the surface. They always talked about the smell, how it was fresh but with the distinctive sting of salt. It was always spoken of romantically, like how people describe the stars or their lover’s hair. She imagines that the Great Salt Lake must have been much the same once; for even when there is hardly any water at all, she still can smell the salt. She loves it. She loves the lake. It feels almost like a part of her. More so even than her tribe, or her husband.

Her husband. He’d left the New Canaanites to be with her, after she refused to leave her own home and go with him. Life there was all he knew, with the tall buildings and the continuous stream of traders passing through. It was not a life that interested her, and so without a moment's hesitation he had packed his holy book and moved into the village with her and her family. He even spent most nights sleeping under the stars with her, since she prefers the sky and the open air to the wooden roof and the smokey-smelling stove of the lodge. Always so determined to never leave her side. It’s one of the many things she adores about him.

Even during the birth of their child, he remained beside her, talking to constantly about ideas for names. They couldn’t agree on any, and she reminded him repeatedly that they had plenty of time to choose; naming ceremonies never took place until the child’s first full moon.

A name is personhood, it defines one's life, and to give it lightly before one’s place in the world is solidified is to open the heart to needless grief. At least, that is how it's understood in her village. For the unnamed babies who pass on before their naming ceremony, they have a different grieving ritual. One of a more reserved and private nature, devoted to the parents rather than the life lived by the deceased person. The mother and father go off to deal with their loss in private, to sing grieving songs for their child and clear their minds, then they return and are welcomed back with a small ceremony by the tribe, fresh meat is roasted and a bonfire burns throughout the following night and day.

Since her son’s birth, she has begun to think of the grieving songs she might sing for him. The baby often refuses to take milk, growing frighteningly still and quiet when he does. He is too small and too frail, sometimes barely opens his eyes. Even when he first arrived into the world, he barely cried. Now her husband prays each night to his God, insisting that his faith will give their son strength, will help him make it to his first moon. But when the old mothers of the village hold her son, they lower their voices and tell her to hope he passes on before the naming. That it will be too hard to recover if she is forced to endure a grieving ceremony for a life not lived, rather than a child with no name. She cannot help but believe them.  
  
And yet still, when she stares into the lake, her mind is full of hope for the life her child might live. While the water stirs about her feet, she finds herself bargaining with some invisible force for her son’s life. Wishing for something, anything, to make him strong. She wonders if this is what it feels like for her husband when he prays.

Instead, worse news greets her. When she steps from the water and returns to the lodge, she finds the leaders speaking with an old woman from another tribe. A survivor of an attack on a nearby village, by a group of assailants, painted white like the shores of the Salt Lake. The old woman calls them White Legs, her eyes burning with fury as she describes the attack, and warns that it's only a matter of time before they make their way to this village as well.

Immediately, the leaders begin to talk of leaving. They aren’t a people of war and combat and even if they were, they are too few and the White Legs too many. 

She and her husband resist the idea of abandoning their home. Both fearing their son will not survive the journey to safer grounds, while she secretly fears the prospect of a life apart from her beloved salt lake and the pale shores. They aren’t the only ones who resist the idea, many others also feel their chances of survival will not helped by running, that they will just be mowed down as they flee anyway, that they’d rather die fighting for their home. This leads to talk of splitting the tribe, a plan that no one loves, but the only suitable compromise. 

Eventually, it is agreed that those who wish to stay will fight in order that those who leave may have a better chance of making it to safety.

All that remains in the wake of the decision is for her and her husband to decide what they should do. He is no warrior, but wants to stay so she and their son can escape. She also wants to stay and fight. They fall to bickering over who should remain and who should and watch after their son.

The White Legs move on their camp before they reach an agreement. The sentries report the warriors’ approach, and soon she and her husband both find themselves standing in the main camp with the other fighters, weapons readied; her husband with a spear and herself with an old revolver and her carving knife. They hide their son in the lodge at first, but fearing that it will be razed, she chooses instead to wrap him in a sling and carry him on her back.

With gunshots echoing over the hills, announcing the White Legs’ imminent arrival, her husband holds them both close and she whispers to him that perhaps if they survive, this fight will turn their infant son into a great warrior. They laugh.

When the White Legs breach into the camp they join a party hiding behind the lodge, waiting to ambush them in the limited space between the lodge and the ridge that towers above it. Her sister and one of the leaders stand atop the ridge, raining down spears onto the White Legs as they approach the ambush point. The rest of the party then attacks as the White Legs’ formation breaks. Though she is not experienced with a revolver, she barely misses a shot, waiting until the enemy is close and easy to hit before squeezing the trigger. Her husband covers her as she reloads, carving a wide arc with his spear at any who get too close.

In the midst of this chaos, it feels momentarily as though they might have a chance at victory. White Legs outnumber them still, but are falling at twice the rate, undisciplined and shooting wildly, more bullets creating holes in the ridge than in their targets.

Then they set the lodge alight.

The fighting party is forced to move from their defensible position, into the open where the enemy quickly circles around them. Bullets tear through the first group who makes it out of reach of the blaze. The others begin to retreat, moving along the ridge instead, where they are cornered by another group of White Legs. Her husband dashes to the front of the band and skewers two White Legs with his spear before a bullet strikes him in the chest. As he falls to his knees, he tries to bar the White Legs’ advance, striking at their legs, stalling them. She shoots two more of them in the head, then begins to shove people in the other direction.

"Climb the ridge!" she shouts, "Go as close to the flame as you can, and then climb the rocks once you reach the slope." She herds the party forward, shooting less accurately at those who pursue.

They move behind the burning lodge, coughing from the smoke and trapped between the fire and the ridge, only able to move single file. The White Legs stop pursuit, no doubt planning to head them off on the other side. She grabs a throwing spear from one of the other fighters and holds it to the blaze to set it alight. As they edge past the lodge, she uses the spear to light every building and tent adjacent to them, keeping everyone shielded by the flames. The White Legs unable to come within range of them.

Smoke burns at her eyes and singes her hair, but as they press forward, she sees the edge of the camp come into view, the pale shoreline just beyond it. Everyone begins to run faster, and as the first people begin to descend the climbable part of the slope there, she moves from the group to provide more cover. A few bullets ricochet off the rocks as people begin their ascent, and she fires back, scattering remaining White Legs. Shots splash into the sand around her feet. A bullet strikes her in the calf, sending her down to one knee.

Then the shots seize. She casts a glance over her shoulder and spots the last person disappearing over the face of the cliff. When she looks back, the remaining White Legs are moving away from the lake. She waits for them to fire on her again and finish her off, but, to her confusion, they simply continue to withdraw. They regroup at the edge of the camp and start to head up the hill from the village, perhaps intending to finish off the survivors by ambushing them atop the ridge.

Taking a deep breath, she tries to climb to her feet again, to make chase. But the pain in her leg drags her back down. Howling in frustration, she fires the last of her rounds at the backs of the fleeing White Legs. One of them drops, and the rest proceed onward without so much as glancing back. She throws down her gun and sinks back into the sand, feeling defeated.

Her son lets out a soft cry and she shushes him gently, pulling the sling holding him around to her front to cradle him. She holds him close to her chest, his small head resting in her palm. His sobbing continues, suddenly the only sound that exists save for the roaring fire of the village just behind them.

A thought suddenly strikes her in the chest. Even if she manages to go after her tribe and the White Legs, they could both be killed. There’s no way of knowing what might be waiting for them at higher ground. It is also certain that the White Legs will return to loot whatever they can from the razed village. Staying and going are both equally hopeless options.

She clutches her son closer to her, tears forming in her eyes as she realizes that this is goodbye. His small sobs grow louder gradually, until he’s wailing more strongly than he ever has before. It’s like he knows, like he was protesting the idea before she had even realized it herself. _Smart child_ , she thinks, feeling pride swell in her chest.

Mustering all her strength, she climbs to her feet, gritting her teeth at the white-hot pain from her leg. It’ll be a miracle if she makes it up the hill, even alone. One shaky step after the other, she walks down the shoreline, to where the water barely kisses the hot beach. Then she lowers her son down to the cool sand, placing a kiss on his forehead.

Then she rises to her feet and steps into the water, feeling it lap against her ankles once more, the salt stinging at her wound, cleaning it. She looks out across the water and thinks again of the sea, thinks of all those books describing the smell and the vastness of it. She looks back at her son, resting on the shoreline, his crying still piercing the air.

“You are as strong as the sea,” she whispers to him. “I know you will prosper.”

Then she steps from the water and starts to limp her way up the banks, up the slope of the hills. Her son’s voice with her every step of the way.

 

* * *

  
The embers are still smouldering when Caesar approaches the camp.

Scouts reported a small band of people fleeing from the area, and now he sees why, there is nothing left but bodies and smoke.  
  
So it is strange that he hears what sounds like a baby crying, echoing across the water and the surrounding salt deposits. He walks across the beach, towards the sound, his feet sinking into the sand with each step.

And then he sees it. An infant lying on the shoreline, wailing loudly, with one arm sticking out from the swaddling and curled against the cherry-red face.

As he approaches, the crying abruptly ceases. The baby stares up at him, eyes bright and alert. _Smart child_ , he thinks, stooping to gather it into his arms. The baby gurgles happily as he holds it, bouncing it lightly on his one arm.

“Joshua,” he calls over his shoulder. “You should take a look at this.” His legate acknowledges him with a wave of his hand, and a few yards away, his men fan out and begin searching the ruins.

He returns his gaze to the infant cradled in his arms, and waggles a finger in front of its face. The baby coos and grabs hold of the finger with both of its tiny hands, squeezing it tightly. He chuckles.

“Oh yes, you’re very fierce,” he says, smiling as the infant grips his finger even harder, a humorously determined look written on its pudgy little face. He looks up towards the lake again, watching the small waves rolling over the water, the smell of salt engulfing his senses. Then, almost more to himself, he murmurs, “I get the sense you’ll make quite the formidable warrior, Dead Sea.”

Then he turns from the lake and meets the gaze of his legate, watching them from a sandbank not five feet away, arms folded across his chest. “Quite the formidable warrior, indeed,” agrees Joshua. The baby chirps happily at the sound of his voice, making them both chuckle lightly.

Joshua then reaches out his hand and aids the two of them up the shoreline and towards the village, where the rest of the soldiers are pitching their crimson tents and building fires for the night. The full moon rises over the lake, its silvery light casting a shimmering reflection across the water’s surface. Bathing the three of them in a vivid glow. Caesar glances over his shoulder, silently admiring the view. Dead Sea coos quietly in his arms, and raises a tiny hand towards the massive light.


End file.
